We May Not Have Tomorrow
by AriadneO
Summary: Tonight they'll set the world aflame.  One-shot.


_A/N_: My writing seems to come in two forms: heavily plotted or cliché, meaningless drivel. Unfortunately, this one falls in the latter category. I hope you find some enjoyment anyway. (Also known as "Ariadne writes 1,000 words so she can use the penultimate line.")

Special thanks to my sister and silverduck for their kind encouragement which gave me the confidence to post.

_Disclaimer: _My lawyer is hotter than your lawyer. So there! (Hmm, that did not come out quite right…)

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><p><strong>We May Not Have Tomorrow<strong>

She'll never forget the first time she saw him – and heard him, really – that half-turn and the look of surprise and alarm on his face. She was furious then, but that was back in a time when she could afford to spend fury on insignificant things.

She'll always remember the time she first saw him, really saw him. He came to see her, her alone, full of concern after her _inamorato_ had died. He was so warm and solid and compassionate, a beacon of sympathy and kindness. She learned a little about gratitude that day.

Maybe that's when she first started falling.

Maybe she has never stopped.

She'll never lose that image of him marching off to the station, about to board the train that will take him a world away from home. He glances back once, quickly, and she thinks she reads fear and excitement, hope and resolution all mingled in that look.

She'll forever carry, carved on her heart, his image when he returns on leave. It's the first time she has seen him in two years and she no longer has any idea what she sees.

It's very late today – or is that very early tomorrow? – and the house is settled and peaceful, the guests gone and the convalescent soldiers slumbering. She knows she should be sleeping too, but instead she paces restlessly, haunted by her awareness that he returns to war tomorrow.

He will be gone again in the morning – perhaps for years, perhaps forever – and nothing is settled between them.

Once it would not have mattered. Once she was secure in her standing as the daughter of an earl, certain her beauty and dowry would purchase her an adequate match. Once her greatest worry was capturing someone of sufficient wealth and status, getting the contract signed before her market value declined.

But that was before the war claimed a whole generation of her dance partners. Now there's no more parade of men, no new fish to replace any old ones that didn't bite.

And it is more than that. She begins to see his face in the wounded soldiers who have invaded her house. She begins to see his name in the casualty lists she studies each day with bated breath. She begins to wonder if she could spend a lifetime without his arguments, his laughter, the teasing glint in his eyes. She doesn't know why she ever thought she could.

It took one death to teach her about living.

It takes many deaths to teach her about love.

She had such high hopes when she first learned of his leave. His mother's commitment to nursing duties meant he would be staying in her home and back then, ten days seemed so infinitely sufficient to repair old mistakes and build a future anew. But then he come back changed, hardened and more distant, and her family were always around, and he spent time with his mother, and he visited his old colleagues, and he inspected the estate…and her courage simply faltered each time she tried to speak.

So nothing is settled. Instead, they spent these ten days of his leave weaving the steps of an intricate dance without an ending. The musicians are playing no longer; is there still time for the final figure?

Ignoring the dictates of propriety and pride, she seeks him with all the determination she has ever possessed.

He is in the library, as she knew he would be, staring into the last embers of the dying flame. A glass of half-finished brandy lies forgotten at his side.

She enters silently, light footfalls muffled by the thick carpet, but something – perhaps the perfume of her hair, the beat of her heart, or just that indefinable force between them – alerts him to her presence all the same. These recent years filled with worry for his fate have left their mark and she is now ethereal, less temptress than fae.

Framed against the doorway, in her ivory gown and robe, he fleetingly wonders if she is vision or ghost or dream.

The door glides shut behind her as she crosses the room. He starts to rise, but she stills him with a gentle hand as she comes to kneel at his feet. He says nothing, just observes her and drinks in the peace of the moment and the feel of her palm on his knee.

It is late September and the evenings are cool, though when she shivers, she's not sure if it's from the temperature of the room or the look in his eyes.

Shadows play across both their faces, ghosts of what he has seen and what she has endured. They still resemble their younger selves, but that man and woman are no more.

A comfortable silence envelops them, for the first time in years. They stare at each other, the slight contact of their bodies truer than any words they could share.

But the moment is broken by the chiming of the clock, an unwavering reminder of all that is finite.

"Mary," he says, "it's so late. Why are you here?"

"I love you," she answers simply. Once she would have denied the sentiment, regretted the words as they were spoken, but now she no longer believes in regrets. Today she finds serenity in finally releasing the truth.

He is quiet for a long moment. These years of death have left a stain and sometimes he despairs, uncertain the world will see another spring. But sometimes hope shows up in a place it has no right to be. Amidst all the destruction, she gives him a reason to believe.

And so he speaks. "I could die tomorrow."

"Yes," she agrees, "but we still have tonight."

The fire dies unnoticed as a new one lights aflame.


End file.
